


All of These Words

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Potterlock, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one singular Ravenclaw in John’s Potions class. Seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of These Words

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely [dunstable](http://dunstable.tumblr.com/) for the johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day gift exchange. Thank you to [Brynn](http://1izardqueen.tumblr.com/) for reading it first.

_year one_

There is one singular Ravenclaw in John’s Potions class, a smear of blue with raucous curls in the sea of Gryffindor red and Hufflepuff yellow. He has the pompous look of a Slytherin without an ounce of the earnest excitement of the usual Ravenclaw; he scoffs at all of the professor’s questions without ever bothering to answer a single one. John thinks he hears him mutter “ _obvious_ ” a few times under his breath, but he can’t be sure.

When the professor asks the class to find partners to make a simple cure for boils, John instinctively turns to Mike Stamford, a fellow Muggleborn from the same town as John’s family. He’s already paired with one of his Hufflepuff friends, a shy girl named Molly. Mike sends him an apologetic look, and John shrugs. No problem, he thinks.

Until he glances around and sees that everyone has already found a partner. He looks back to Mike pleadingly, and the other boy gives him a pointed look towards the back of the room, where John can see a blue scarf being torn off hurriedly. The Ravenclaw boy is also partnerless but, unlike John, seems to be unconcerned with this fact. John takes a deep, steadying breath, and makes his way towards his table, balancing his cauldron under one arm and his books under the other, wand held between his teeth.

“Um,” he starts strongly, the syllable muffled by his wand. The other boy does not even glance up. John sets his things down on the table, removes the wand from his mouth, and tries again. “John Watson,” he states. When the other boy still does not respond, John sticks his hand, proffered for a shake, under the Ravenclaw’s nose. The tall boy freezes, looks up at John after a moment. He visibly thinks for a minute, clearly trying to decide if he can get away with ignoring John any longer; he decides against it, apparently, because he swiftly takes John’s hand in his own and shakes it once, twice, before answering John’s introduction finally.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John nods. “Nice to meet you.”

Sherlock does not acknowledge this statement, but rather gets right back to work, his arms flying this way and that in a clearly practiced manner; his wand, made of a dark and sleek wood, is tucked behind his ear, and he removes it occasionally. John watches him for a few moments, trying to figure out what to think, before Sherlock interrupts. “Heat the flobberworm mucus, will you?”

“Heat the--”

“Yes, for exactly ninety-seven seconds.”

John flips through his tattered potions book to the page marked on the chalkboard at the front of the class, just to be sure--and, yes, he was right.

“There’s no flobberworm mucus in the cure for boils.”

At this, Sherlock finally looks him in the eye, and he looks utterly confounded. “Of course there’s not.”

“So…”

“John. You cannot _possibly_ think I would waste my time making a _cure for boils_. That’s patently ridiculous, and if you’re going to insist on following Slughorn’s useless lesson plans, I suggest you find yourself a new lab partner.”

John stares, for some reason stopped by Sherlock’s use of his name; the syllable is somehow elongated by the other boy’s voice, and John finds himself nodding his assent to Sherlock’s diatribe, despite the fact that, in reality, John very much _had_ planned to follow the lesson.

Instead, he finds himself heating the flobberworm mucus, removing his Muggle watch and placing it on the table in front of them so he can time it just right.

“Here,” he says, holding out the small vial to Sherlock once it’s finished. Sherlock takes it without looking, pouring its contents into his cauldron and swishing his wand once, swiftly, over the mixture before tucking it back behind his ear.

He does all of this before saying, almost too subtly for John to hear it, “Thank you.”

At this, John breaks out into a grin.

“So what are we making?” John ventures.

“Haven’t the faintest.”

John takes this in stride. “Isn’t that a bit...I don’t know, dangerous?”

“So?” Sherlock glances over at him, smirking. John returns the smile and begins to roll up his sleeves.

“What do I do next?”

Sherlock rummages in his bag (leather, clearly expensive) before handing John a sealed jar. “Chop the gurdyroots.”

John does so, and, without a glance at his work, Sherlock corrects him. “Cubed, not sliced.” John rights himself, trying to keep up with the other boy’s rapid pace.

“So why are you in this class?” John asks into the silence, continuing to work instead of making eye contact with Sherlock, whose eyes are bright and slightly discomforting.

“You really don’t have to make conversation with me, John. We can work in silence.”

“Is that what you want?” John asks.

“I have no preference.” Sherlock pauses. “Are you done with those gurdyroots?”

John hands them over. “So. Why are you in this class?”

Sherlock looks at him, apparently surprised by the continued conversation. He shrugs. “I wanted to be.”

“But there’re no other Ravenclaws here. Don’t you guys have your own Potions lesson?”

“Yes, but it interfered with Advanced Arithmancy, and they wouldn’t let me skip First Year Potions, for some godforsaken reason.”

“Advanced Arithmancy.”

“Yes.”

“So...numbers and such?”

“Yes, John. Numbers and such. Crush the valerian sprigs.”

“But isn’t that class only for NEWT students?” John had read every class roster he could find in the month since he had received his Hogwarts letter, trying to catch up to the others who had had years to do so.

“Generally, yes.”

“But you’re a first year, aren’t you?” Sherlock gives a brief hum of assent. “So how did you get put in that class?”

“I wasn’t _put_ in it, I _chose_ to be in it.”

“It doesn’t work like that, though.”

Sherlock smirks, revealing crowded teeth. “I think you’ll find it does, John.”

John can’t bring himself to be surprised by this response. “So...your brother is Head Boy this year, yeah?” John asks. “Holmes? That can’t be too common a name.”

“I’d prefer to discuss anything other than Mycroft, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock pauses. “In fact, even if you _do_ mind.”

“Not a real happy relationship there?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“Okay. So...I’m out, Sherlock. I don’t know a thing about you, other than that you’re a Ravenclaw and apparently brilliant with numbers. Not much to go off of there.”

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s plenty to go off of, John.”

“Well I don’t see _you_ trying to make any small talk.”

“I am not one to make small talk, as a general rule.”

John nods and goes about finishing up the valerian sprigs. As he finishes, he slides them over to Sherlock. As he does so, Sherlock immediately scoops some into his hand, goes to weigh them, and pauses, fist hovering over the scales. Clenching his fingers around them and without dropping a single sprig, he begins to speak in a rapid-fire manner John can barely follow. “You’re a Gryffindor, that much is obvious, based upon your uniform and presence in this class. You were expecting to be in Hufflepuff, that’s what your brother told you to expect, but he’s a Muggle and doesn’t know any better. You’ve got scrapes all up and down your forearms and a stray bruise along your hairline. Their placement says Rugby, but you’re far smaller than the average player; you didn’t pause when I affirmed your accusations of danger, and you’re considering trying out for beater on the Quidditch team--so, danger complex. You don’t like too much attention, but still, a clear Gryffindor.”

With that, Sherlock goes back into motion, dropping the sprigs onto the scale and acting as though he’s said absolutely nothing.

“That was brilliant,” John blurts after a moment.

Sherlock freeze again. “You think so?”

“Of course it was! That was...astounding, really.”

Sherlock smiles; it’s extremely different from his smirks, and it makes his eyes crinkle in a way that makes them look far less intimidating.

“I’ve not got a brother, though. Why did you think that?”

“Engraving on your watch,” Sherlock says.

John laughs.

“Harry’s my sister,” he says. “Short for Harriet.”

Sherlock drops the tweezers he’s holding and groans. “A _sister,_ ” he says, frustrated.

John laughs, and Sherlock glares at him, but there is a distinct lack of malice behind it. In fact, he seems to be fighting back a smile.

 

_year two_

It’s April, and Gryffindor is playing their final Quidditch match in a muggy rain. They’re playing Slytherin, and John is playing substitute Beater. He’s trying to restrain his excitement as he mounts his broom, hair already beginning to plaster itself to his forehead; he reminds himself that the only reason he’s here is because Dimmock was knocked upside the head by a Slytherin Beater’s bat. He tries to remind himself of this, but instead, his hands shake with eagerness.

The instant he’s in the air, a bludger is whizzing by his face. He jolts backwards, startled but in no way cowed. The bludger is headed straight for Gryffindor’s lead Chaser, so John speeds after it and smacks it in the general direction of the Slytherin Keeper just before it can make contact with his own teammate.

Much of the game passes by in this manner; Gryffindor’s defense is tight today, but their offense is markedly slowed down by the ruthless Slytherin Beaters. The score, which John can only just hear over the roar of the rain and the crowd, is close. He is starting to worry as he sees Irene--the Slytherin Seeker, a third year girl with the keenest eye John has ever seen--go bolting off to the far corner of the field. John dives for a bludger, determined to send it Irene’s way before the older girl can catch the snitch she is so clearly chasing. John is almost there when Sally Donovan passes him, carrying the quaffle. On her way, green robe flapping in John’s face in her wake, she yells, “Don’t see your _friend_ here today, Watson!”

And she doesn’t have to say his name; John doesn’t even need to hear the cruel laugh that trails behind her. He knows who she’s talking about, and he recognizes all too well the taunting tone in her voice.

John sends the bludger her way instead

It hits her square in the back. It’s a clean hit, but certainly not a gentle one.

John doesn’t watch the fallout, instead turning his attention to Irene’s pursuit of the snitch; it’s hopeless, John knows, the Gryffindor Seeker is nowhere nearby, but still John turns on his broom and tries to find the second bludger to send after Irene. Watching her catch the snitch won’t make any difference, and John doesn’t want to be a sitting duck when it happens. He’s a few feet from the bludger when cheers erupt all around the stadium; John can’t tell who’s yelling, but he assumes it’s the Slytherins. He drops his head.

And sees the snitch, just a few feet below him.

So--

It’s the Gryffindors cheering, boisterous over a goal made by their lead Chaser. Irene has, apparently, let the snitch pass between her fingers. John contemplates snatching it himself, but it’s gone before he can.

The game is quick from there, with Sally slowed down by John’s bludger and the other Slytherin Chasers a bit lost without her. John slows his pace a bit, focusing more on precision than speed, and prevents a few additional Slytherin goals. Before long, the Gryffindor Seeker--a seemingly quiet girl by the name of Sarah--catches the snitch, and the whole stadium erupts into cheers; there is a silent swath of green, but John could not possibly care any less.

Alongside his teammates, he lands his broom; they receive the accolades of their peers for a few minutes before retreating to the locker room. They hurriedly change, ready to get back to the common room; their win didn’t get them the Quidditch Cup--an honor undoubtedly to be given to Hufflepuff that year--but they have cemented their second place, which was more than good enough, after their incredibly shaky season.

When John emerges from the locker room, a few minutes after his teammates, he is immediately born down upon by Sally Donovan. She grabs the front of his robes and, being considerably taller than him, leans down until her face is frighteningly close to John’s.

“Where the _hell_ do you get off, Watson?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.” John resists the temptation to stand on his toes to even out their heights a bit.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve for a second year, you know that?”

“I’ve been told as much,” John says evenly, matching her glare.

She unclenches her fists from his robes after a few more angry inhales. “Watch yourself, Watson. You’re just a sub, and a damn shabby one at that. And I’d stay away from that kid if I were you.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you wouldn’t be so terrible if you weren’t always dashing about with that idiot.”

“Clearly you’ve not met him, if you’re calling him an idiot.”

“Of course I’ve met him. His family’s pureblood, you know? They’d hate you, call you a lot worse than Muggleborn.”

“I don’t care.”

“No? You really don’t think he doesn’t call you those names behind your back?”

“Sherlock wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course he would. I’m sure he does. He’s a bloody psychopath, that one, and you’re not his _friend,_ Watson. Trust me.”

“You know? I rather think I am?”

And with that, John turns and walks away from Sally, tuning out her continued shouts of warning. He tries to shut the words she’s already said from his mind, tries not to imagine Sherlock’s voice forming insults against him. As he exits the stadium, he is met by Sherlock, standing just outside the large double doors. He is dressed in his standard clothes--button-up shirt, slacks, no tie, just slightly out of uniform. He holds his robes over his head, but John can just catch the glint of a red pin attached to the breast.

“Did you stay and watch?” John asks, surprised.

“Don’t be absurd, John.”

“So you didn’t. Watch the match, that is.”

“I distinctly dislike Quidditch, I’ve made that painfully clear, John.”

“No, you’ve made it painfully clear that you hate when I have Quidditch practice.” John points to the pin. “So what’s that?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says quickly.

“It’s a Gryffindor pin, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s silence says it all.

“You stayed and watched!” John says. He beams at Sherlock, not even trying to hide his elation.

“...Perhaps.” And John can no longer imagine Sherlock’s voice saying anything else--just the words _perhaps_ and _John_ playing on repeat in John’s head, without a single trace of Sally’s insults.

 

_year three_

“This is a ridiculous tradition,” Sherlock says for the umpteenth time. And they’re only just now walking out the front doors of Hogwarts into the snow.

“Just give it a _try,_ Sherlock, I swear. That’s all,” John assures him. “Hogsmeade isn’t even that far away--if you absolutely despise it, you’ll at most have wasted half a day.”

“That’s half a day I could have spent on the Polyjuice Potion.”

“Staring at the Polyjuice Potion, you mean.”

“I’ve told you, John, I’m working on a fast-brewing variation.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

Sherlock pauses, looks at John. Their height difference is severely decreased this year, much to John’s delight. There’s only about an inch between them now, and John has a feeling he’ll catch up by Spring. He’s been growing nonstop since June.

“I’m working on it,” Sherlock finally answers.

“That’s what I thought,” John says with a laugh. “Besides, I need to buy you a Christmas present, and I have absolutely _no_ idea what to get you. I can’t really top last year.”

“You got me bubotuber pus last year.”

“And you loved it.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but his mouth is quirking into a smile against his best efforts otherwise. He tries to hide it behind his scarf, but John catches it before he can. They walk through the slush of half-melted and re-frozen snow, and John watches the new flakes start to catch in Sherlock’s hair. He hadn’t even bothered telling him to wear a hat; he never did. He said it was because he didn’t need one, but his bright red ears begged to differ. John knew it was really because hats ruined his hair.

The walk is somewhat long, but the time passes quickly. John laughs, listening to Sherlock’s monologue on their classmates’ most recent foibles, occasionally throwing in an opinion of his own-- _they can’t possibly be together, she’s not gay!_ or _Sherlock, she can’t be cheating on her exams, she’s top of her class!_ \--and Sherlock just chuckles at every one.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he says to the last one. “How do you think she got there?”

“Well no wonder she’s a Slytherin,” John mutters.

“Your propensity for assigning evilness to Slytherins is truly remarkable, John.”

John whips his head to look at Sherlock. “You can’t possibly be arguing anything different, Sherlock. They’re arseholes, the whole lot of them!”

“My brother was a Slytherin, John.”

John considers this. “Um...yes?”

“So I suppose you have a point.”

They laugh together, then, giddy giggles that are muffled by the now-heavy snow. These are the moments John likes best--when Sherlock isn’t only his friend, but his _friend_ , in a way that cannot be explained.

Hogsmeade begins to take shape around them, and John leads Sherlock into all the same shops he visited last month. But that had been without Sherlock, and so now they were something entirely different. They take on a far more fascinating quality with the presence of the other boy beside him, and John takes great pleasure in pointing out every product and sight to Sherlock.

“You know I come from a wizarding town, right, John?” Sherlock asks, amused.

“Yeah, but this is _Hogsmeade._ ”

“It’s...quaint.”

“All right, then prove it.” John says, and when Sherlock looks at him inquiringly, adds, “I’ll just have to see _your_ town sometime, if it’s so great.” He gives Sherlock a smug grin.

“It’s not.”

John stutters. “Oh.”

“But I’ll still show you,” Sherlock adds, almost hastily.

“You don’t have to,” John says, trying to cover his tracks.

“You were planning to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas anyway, John, you might as well come to my house for the holiday.” Sherlock sniffs, trying to be imperious and utterly failing. John can see his brow furrowing and fingers fidgeting in the pockets of his coat. “I mean, my family is dreadful, and I’m sure you’ll be entirely bored, and you certainly don’t have to, but--”

“Sure,” John says. “I’ll spend Christmas with the Holmeses.”

Sherlock nods, once, and begins walking again, down the street in the same direction from which they have just come. He nearly slips on the slick pavement, but catches himself and continues to walk without acknowledging the trip-up. John laughs to himself and catches up, trying his best not to repeat Sherlock’s stumble. He fails entirely, tumbling to the ground into a snow bank. Before he can say anything, Sherlock is at his side, hand proffered to help John to his feet. John accepts, tugging on Sherlock’s tight grip until they are both standing once more.

They stand very closely for a moment, before John clears his throat and steps away. Sherlock mirrors the movement, stuffing his hands into his pockets. John decides not to think too hard about it, choosing instead to continue with the plan he made earlier. Ruffling his hand through his hair, he inclines his head the opposite direction from the one in which Sherlock had been headed.

“You were going the wrong way, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks around, indignant. “Was I?”

“Yeah, I was going to bring you to the Shrieking Shack.”

“The what?”

John boggles for an instant. “The Shrieking Shack? Basically the haunted house of Hogwarts? Surely you’ve heard of it, Sherlock. Even if you’ve never been there, someone in your family must have mentioned it to you at some point. Mycroft, surely. He was Head Boy, he had to have known.”

“Why would Mycroft have known?”

“Because it’s a Hogwarts legend!”

“Ah. Mycroft rarely concerns himself with legends, and even if he did, I rarely listen when he speaks.”

John rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine, whether or not you’ve heard of it, we’re going today.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”  
  
“John, I hate surprises.”

“No, you hate not _knowing_ things. But it’s good for you, Sherlock, I promise. Come on, it’s just a few minutes’ walk.”

“Are we allowed to go there?” John gives Sherlock a disconcerted look. “Never mind, scratch that, it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s what I thought,” John said, grinning. He goes to grab Sherlock’s arm to tug him in the proper direction--something he’s done countless times since meeting each other--but for some reason stops short. Instead, he goes to ruffle his hair again, and Sherlock clearly notices this time. John sees the other boy’s eyes locking onto the movement, and he can feel his face heating. He turns and starts walking, trusting Sherlock to follow. He does.

To mask the awkwardness, John blurts, “I was thinking about asking Sarah out. Sarah Sawyer?” He clears his throat. “She’s older, I know, but now that I’m a permanent member of the Quidditch team, and we’ve been talking pretty often, I was thinking, maybe she’d--”

“She’ll say yes, John,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Really? You reckon?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Sherlock’s voice is irritated, and John grins, if a little halfheartedly. The two make their way to the Shrieking Shack, where Sherlock has a field day with the centuries-old trails left by the hundreds of witches and wizards who have tread.

If his heart is still beating a bit fast and Sherlock’s deductions seem a bit more interesting than usual, John doesn’t pay it any mind.

 

_year four_

John drags himself up the stairs to the Gryffindor boys’ fourth year dorms. He tugs his tie off as he makes his way up the final flight of steps, tumbling into the room in a flurry of exhaustion. He’s toeing off his shoes when--

“I told you you wouldn’t have a good time.”

John stumbles backwards, arms flailing, trying to catch himself before his backside meets the ground. He does, just in time, but there is nothing graceful about it. He glares at Sherlock, lain on his bed with hands steepled beneath his chin and legs crossed neatly. He doesn’t even look at John, nor does he elaborate on his previous statement; he does not acknowledge the piercing anger John is directing his way, and it pisses John off a bit.

“Who says I didn’t have a good time?” John asks bitterly.

“You do.”

“I didn’t say _anything_. How did you get up here, by the way?”

“You told me the password ages ago, and even if you hadn’t, I could have just looked on your Transfiguration notes--you’ve always got it written there.”

“No I haven’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“ _Fine_ ,” John spits, turning back to getting his shoes off. When he does, he tosses them into his trunk and stands at the foot of his bed.

“I told you that you should have let me teach you to dance,” Sherlock says, adopting that pompous tone John hates so much. “Your night would have gone much more smoothly.”

“My dancing was just fine, thanks.”

Sherlock’s face lights up. “Ah, so it _wasn’t_ the dancing. It was Sarah, then? I told you it was useless to go. She’s interested in Dimmock, I told you that.”

“Well, you’re also the one who told me she’d say yes if I asked her out.”

“I did not say you would have a _good time_ , John, I merely said she would say yes.”

“Brilliant, thanks,” John mutters. “Besides, I didn’t say it wasn’t a good time.”

Sherlock finally manages to look at him, and it’s an exasperated look. A look that screams, _Oh, John. Please. Don’t insult me._ John groans, raking his hands through his hair.

“You know, why do you always have to know everything, Sherlock? Can’t I think _one fucking thought_ without you deducing it?” He laughs, humorlessly. “Damnit, Sherlock, can’t I just have a bad date without you knowing it?”

Sherlock sneers at him. “Not so brilliant now, are they? My deductions?” He’s adopted a taunting tone of voice, but John can almost see hurt in Sherlock’s eyes.

John sighs, losing his patience. He takes robe off, movements sharp and jagged, and begins to undo the buttons on his shirt. “That’s not what I’m saying, Sherlock. You know I think your deductions are amazing, they make you... _you_. But sometimes...I dunno, there’s stuff I don’t want you to know. And I didn’t want you to know that I found Sarah snogging Dimmock in the corner tonight. I didn’t want you to know that I, _once again_ , had a terrible date with an amazing girl. Just _once_ , Sherlock, could you not know those things?”

Sherlock has the courtesy to look shell-shocked. “I…” He stops. “I didn’t know about Dimmock. Well, I know about it in only general terms, not the details, I--”

“I know, Sherlock, I know you didn’t know that my date ditched me for a better guy.” John starts taking off his socks, then his trousers, deciding to sleep in boxers and a t-shirt tonight, despite the biting December chill outside. “But you knew I was miserable, and you decided to talk about it anyway.”

Sherlock doesn’t really seem to be listening anymore. He’s staring at John, eyes intense and expression unreadable. John clears his throat and soldiers on. “Sometimes, I just want to be miserable in private, Sherlock.”

This seems to snap Sherlock out of his reverie. He blinks, nods once, curtly, and swings his legs over the side of John’s bed. “All right,” he says, simply, but his voice is quiet, and John can almost feel the emotion behind the two syllables. Sherlock immediately starts heading for the door, strides long and swift.

John sighs, dragging his hands down his face. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean you had to _leave_ , I just meant…” John lets out an exasperated growl. “I just meant, can we not talk about Sarah rejecting me at the Yule Ball? Can we just...ignore it for tonight?” John, unsure what else to say, collapses backwards onto his bed and throws an arm over his face. “Really. We can talk about _anything else_ ,” he says into the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock has stopped walking, John can tell by the ceased sounds of his footsteps. He can hear Sherlock clear his throat, walk back to John’s four-poster bed. John peeks out at him from over the top of his forearm. The other boy stands there awkwardly, looking both petulant and hesitant at the same time, and John marvels at Sherlock’s unique ability to express such an emotion. He sighs and shifts over on the bed. Sherlock understands without asking, folding his legs under him as he sits next to John. It’s silent only for a few moments, and John revels in it before Sherlock asks, “Want to play Exploding Snap?”

John laughs, quickly. “Why not?” he says. He drags his legs up onto the bed so he can lean over them and into his trunk to grab the bag. They both scramble to the ground to play, and John enjoys the simplicity of it all.

Until he’s yawning and exhausted and instead of leaving, Sherlock stays. As John crawls under the covers, Sherlock stretches out next to him, taking up far too much space with his too-long limbs.

John starts to ask what he’s doing. He decides against it.

He’s asleep in moments. When he wakes again, Sherlock is sitting next to him, face looming over John’s. John’s eyes jolt open, his hand flying for the wand he usually leaves on his nightstand.

“ _God_ , Sherlock! You berk, what are you doing?”

Sherlock flings himself gracefully from the bed; John thinks for a moment that Sherlock hasn’t slept at all, because his clothes are still quite in order, and he’s far too awake, but his hair is an utter mess, curls smashed unevenly against his forehead and ears. “Did you know,” Sherlock starts, loudly, “that you speak in your sleep?”

John chokes a bit on his own saliva. “About what?”

“ _John_ ,” comes the grumble from one of his fellow Gryffindors’ beds. “Can you and your boyfriend _please_ shut _up_? Some of us actually do sleep on Saturdays.”

John turns red, begins to protest his classmate’s mislabel, but decides it’s not worth the trouble. He tugs Sherlock from the room by his sleeve, whispering, “So what exactly did I say in my sleep?”

 

_year five_

“I swear to Merlin, Sherlock, if you don’t stop distracting me, I’m going to have to study somewhere else,” John threatens. “Our OWLs start _next week_ , I can’t keep putting this off.”

“John, please, those tests are just to weed out the imbeciles. You’ll have no trouble passing them, you are somewhat above average in most areas.”

“Gee, thank you for those heartwarming words,” John mutters, flicking to the next page of his Charms textbook. There is far too much to study in not nearly enough time, and John is starting to panic; he’s feeling okay about Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration; Astronomy shouldn’t be too hard (though Sherlock _still_ wouldn’t shut up about the uselessness of the class), and Herbology and Care for Magical Creatures were never too difficult. It’s Potions and Charms he’s worried about, mainly because Sherlock spends most of his time in those classes distracting John from doing the actual work. John can’t remember the last time he actually made the prescribed potion during class. Actually, he can. It only happened once, when Sherlock was bedridden with the flu last year.

He’s got to do well on his exams, too, if he’s going to continue into all the NEWT classes he needs. He’s got his heart set on working at St. Mungo’s after he graduates, and they don’t accept just anyone. Sherlock thinks his worrying is unfounded, but Sherlock is a genius--John certainly isn’t, and he knows he, for one, needs to study if he’s ever going to get those Exceeds Expectations and Outstanding grades he’d need. He wishes sometimes that he either had a less brilliant friend or less lofty goals for himself, but he can’t change either of those things now.

So he has to study.

Which means Sherlock needs to shut up, or John would be strangling him before too long.

Sherlock manages to stay silent for about thirty seconds. John spends them alternately studying and marveling at the peace and quiet. He had retreated to the library in an effort to get away from Sherlock’s insistent interruptions, but Sherlock had, of course, found him in less than ten minutes. The respite ends suddenly with an elongated, upset, “ _John._ ” Sherlock flops his head dramatically onto the table, arms splayed in front of him in an attempt to look pathetic. John slams his fist down on the table, earning him a stern glare from the librarian and a startled look from Sherlock.

“Sherlock, _really_. I can’t fail these exams.” John’s voice is serious and grave; he tries to make the message as painfully clear to Sherlock as possible.

But Sherlock is just staring at his hand, fingers spread and palm flat against the ancient wood of the table after his loss of temper. John watches Sherlock’s gaze flicker, almost too fast to notice, from John’s hand to his face and back again, over and over. He doesn’t look scared or upset or irritated--only very, very fascinated. John starts to feel dizzy, watching it, and he stands abruptly.

“I’ve got to go find a, uh, a--a book,” he announces, too loudly. He gets _shush_ ed by the librarian, but he doesn’t really process it as he walks stiffly away from Sherlock, who continues to stare after him. John makes his way quickly to the farthest aisle, deserted and dusty. He leans against the shelves and takes a deep breath, trying to steady his spiking heartbeat. He wipes his palms, suddenly sweat-slick, against his jeans, and loosens his scarf. He feels his forehead, trying to see if maybe he’s got a fever--he certainly feels light-headed enough for it, but he’d been fine just minutes ago. Usually his frustration with Sherlock doesn’t affect him this strongly. Usually they’ll bicker for a minute or two and he’ll be fine.

It’s _ridiculous_ , this is. He’s not even _angry_ with Sherlock, he’s just got a racing pulse and a tight throat and shaking hands and--oh, _bugger._

He’s just starting to feel like he’s going to throw up when he hears Sherlock clear his throat, almost _politely_ , and that noise alone is so strange that John immediately looks up to see if it’s really him. It is.

And John is sucks in a breath, sharply, suddenly--and that’s the hard part, the breathing, it’s almost impossible--but then it’s so easy, so _easy_ to just say, “Oh, _sod this_ ,” and grab Sherlock’s robes, gather them tightly in his fists, and pull him down to John’s height.

The bastard got tall again, and John’s mad about it for a moment; he’s also noticing that Sherlock smells like ink and over-sugared tea, that Sherlock’s still not wearing a tie but his shirts have started to fit him _so much better_ than they used to, that Sherlock’s interrupted his studying _once again_ , the arsehole.

And John notices all these things before he notices how soft Sherlock’s lips are, before he notices that they’re still on his for a few moments before they start moving just slightly, that Sherlock’s hands freeze at John’s sides, that the other boy’s brow is furrowed against John’s.

John breaks away to look up at him, and Sherlock does indeed have a furrowed brow, his eyes screwed up tightly and his hands still stiff at his sides. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, not until his eyes suddenly jolt open and he sucks in a breath--the exact same look he gets when he’s just made a particularly clever deduction, and John’s breaking out into a grin over it.

“Was that…” he asks, trying not to step away from Sherlock, but also trying not to seize his robes again.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers quickly, before John can even finish the question. He looks intently at John, his fingers starting to fidget at his sides.

“Oh, thank _God,_ ” John says, and this time he grabs Sherlock by the face, fingers splayed against the other boy’s cheek, left hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. Sherlock’s hands unfreeze, and he sets them on John’s hips, and John subconsciously wonders at how large they are, how they feel almost burning even through his jumper.

Sherlock has to lean down a bit to reach John’s mouth, so John tries to make it a bit easier for him, backing himself up against the books and pulling Sherlock with him, using the shelf as leverage to get himself closer to Sherlock. Because now Sherlock’s lips are moving against his own, and he’s making this small noise, quietly, in the back of his throat, that has John’s breath shaking. Their noses collide in their awkward enthusiasm, and they over-adjust, knocking foreheads in their effort to solve the problem. They eventually give in, pulling apart to catch their breath and realign themselves, and John can’t help it--he starts laughing, low and gleeful. Sherlock backs away a bit, but John keeps his grip hard on his shoulders, holding him in place.

“I’m not laughing at _you_ , Sherlock, I’m just--” John quiets his voice, “we’re in a _library._ ”

Sherlock nods, and his voice is so devastatingly low when he says, “I noticed.”

“That was…” John trails off. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the moment, by the tingling that won’t leave his lips, by Sherlock still pressed against him.

“Brilliant?” Sherlock suggests.

“I was going to say mad, but--” John winds his hand into Sherlock’s blue-and-bronze scarf and pulls him down again, keeping eye contact as long as possible. “--yeah, brilliant works, too.”

And their lips meet again.

 

_year six_

The Ravenclaw dorms are nothing like their Gryffindor counterparts. Instead of one large, round room filled with four-poster beds for all the students in each year, the Ravenclaw students each have their own individual room--tiny, almost closet-like--that opens out into a smaller, circular room with desks and heavily cushioned chairs for studying. There are tall windows everywhere, casting the entire space in an almost otherworldly brightness at all times of the day; inevitably, the room is stuffed with books and parchment--organized chaos at its very finest.

John didn’t step foot into this room until his fourth year, despite being friends with Sherlock almost since the day he came to Hogwarts. For this very reason, it still holds a certain mystery to him. Its windows seem almost magical in their glimmering, the doors nearly secretive, with centuries of markings from past students.

Sherlock tried to teach him how to get past the Ravenclaw riddles--they spent _weeks_ trying to perfect the skill--but John is utterly hopeless. And so it will come as a surprise to Sherlock to see John waiting in his room, shoes kicked off and tucked under the bed, nose buried in one of Sherlock’s piles of parchment. He reads Sherlock’s notes meticulously, marveling at the boy’s brilliant mind, his ability to turn seemingly useless, discrepant facts into something coherent and _important_.

He is reading these notes when he hears the doorknob turn in the ruthless, sudden way that only Sherlock can manage. John’s head snaps up, and their eyes meet the instant Sherlock is through the doorway.

“Hello,” John says, smiling lazily, lop-sided.

“Hello,” Sherlock returns. His lips pull into a smile, a genuine one, the kind that makes his skin crinkle in the way John loves, his eyes losing their harshness. He does not ask how John got into his room (followed another Ravenclaw in, of course, one in their year who knows John and why he’s here), but rather just crawls onto the bed with John, settling himself between John’s legs, his head resting on John’s chest and arms wrapped about his middle. John returns the embrace, settling himself back against Sherlock’s pillows.

“Hello,” Sherlock repeats, inhaling John’s scent this time, and his smile has not disappeared. John thinks perhaps his own is big enough to break his face in two.

They lay like that for a while, Sherlock lazing and John’s fingers tangling in his hair, and John still can’t believe it.

There’s a fall breeze making its way through Sherlock’s slightly-open window, and John tugs it closed when it starts to rain lightly. The movement disturbs the moment, so John suggests they start in on their homework; he expects Sherlock to protest, as he always does. Instead, he simply watches as John begins to pull his Charms essay from his bag, filching a quill from Sherlock’s desk. He starts scratching out the assignment, oddly content, listening to the rain against the window and surrounded by _Sherlock_ \--his smell, his breath, his toes twining against John’s.

He’s just starting to wonder why Sherlock’s stayed so silent this whole time, so he looks up to see Sherlock unmoved, fingers steepled below his chin in their signature position, eyes fixed still on John, intent and amazed. He neither frowns nor smiles, but simply stares, face calm and engaged.

“Hello,” John says again. It’s the only word either of them has said since Sherlock entered the room, and somehow it is enough. Until Sherlock’s fingers reach out and twine with his own; his ink-stained left hand meets palm-to-palm with Sherlock’s pale right one, and they study each other’s callouses for a moment before the silence is broken.

“Your room is not nearly as messy as I’d expect,” John notes, just as Sherlock says, “I love you.”

And John is surprised into silence, for a singular moment, before he chokes out an elated laugh. “Is _that_ what you were thinking about?” It’s not the first time the words have been said, but every time feels a bit different than the last, a bit _better_.

“Of course, John, it’s a rather distracting thought to be having,” Sherlock says, almost irritated, and that just makes John laugh more; and Sherlock loves John’s laugh, so he says those eight letters again, and he says them like they are the only truth in the world.

John shoves his parchment and quills off his lap, paying no mind to the ink splashing to the ground. He’ll clean it up later. “I love you, too,” he says, lips already finding Sherlock’s. “ _Obviously_ ,” he adds, trying his best to imitate Sherlock’s best _John-is-an-idiot_ voice.

And then they’re kissing again, and John never really remembers how it starts, he just feels as though one moment he isn’t kissing Sherlock and the next he is. John tips him backwards, and Sherlock is laid beneath him now, curls just as raucous as the day they met. His hands are so much more confident than they had been in the library, and they’ve quickly migrated to the knot of John’s tie. John tries to lean away a bit to give Sherlock a bit of room to work, but the other boy grips the tie tighter and tugs him in closer instead; it smashes their lips together with almost bruising force, and John grins into the kiss, feels Sherlock do the same.

As Sherlock discards John’s tie onto the floor with a flailing toss, he opens his mouth a bit wider, shifts his hips a bit farther from the mattress, and John’s head is spinning. He lets out a small moan, and Sherlock’s fingers scramble to find the buttons on John’s shirt. They do so efficiently, but the unbuttoning process is a bit less glamorous than he wants it to be. He stumbles on each button, taking far too long. He grows impatient, and John tries to remedy the situation.

“Here, I’ll do it,” he says, trying to move Sherlock’s hands aside.

Sherlock looks up at him, hair mussed and lips red. He says nothing, but he pleads. _Please. Let me._

John smiles lightly. “Okay,” he says, low and calm. Sherlock sets about the task again, this time a bit more calmly. He still takes far longer than it would have if John had simply done it himself, but it gets done. He helps John push the now-open shirt from his shoulders, and John, now kissing him again, makes quick work of Sherlock’s, having had plenty of time to gather himself while Sherlock had worked on his.

As they lay, chest to chest, their breaths begin to match up, and John cannot keep his eyes open; there is too much to see.

They break apart, just for an instant, and John forces himself to look at Sherlock. He’s glad he did. The sheets have rucked up around them, and Sherlock’s irises are near-black, consumed by his pupils. He looks thoroughly snogged, but it is not enough for John. He shifts his hands, which had been framing Sherlock’s head, to rest on his hips, which immediately shift beneath John’s fingers. John leans forward, sets his forehead against Sherlock’s, and goes cross-eyed trying to make eye contact.

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock says, and it’s not a whisper, but his voice is lower and deeper than John has ever heard it, and it sends a near-violent shiver up John’s spine.

“Oh, _God_ , yes,” John returns, and their lips are crashing together again, their bodies following. John’s undoing Sherlock’s zip, and Sherlock’s breathing is heavy against John’s mouth. He is frantic and cannot manage to actually kiss John, and John loves it. He loves this undone version of Sherlock, loves the furrow of his brow.

He taps Sherlock’s hips, urging him to lift them; Sherlock does so, and together they push his trousers down and off to join their shirts. John finds the sensitive spot on Sherlock’s pulse, and Sherlock is nearly done in by that alone. John can feel him gather his resolve beneath him, just before he can feel Sherlock’s hands deftly unhooking the button of John’s trousers and fingers dipping beneath the waistband.

And it’s all a freefall from there.

 

 

_year seven_

The years at Hogwarts are short ones, but they seem to be the only ones John can fully remember; before Hogwarts, there is only a haze of droll existence, and then there is _color_ and _magic,_ and there is _Sherlock_.

John drags his trunk onto the Hogwarts Express one final time, and he tries not to be sad about it. He’s already said goodbye to the Gryffindor common room (home to game tournaments and fireside Sundays), to his four-poster bed (where he did occasionally actually sleep), to the Quidditch pitch (bearing the many marks of John’s very own bludgers, which won him the Quidditch Cup in his captaining year), and to the castle itself. He tries to imagine someone else sleeping in Sherlock’s room next year--somehow more bittersweet than thinking about his own bed--or the new generation of students running to the Room of Requirement as he and Sherlock have done so many times, for so many reasons, some of which he could even tell his sister without blushing. He struggles to think of Hogwarts as anything other than his own home.

Before he can get too sentimental about it, though, he drags his cart on and sets it into the farthest compartment. He splays himself on the bench and is just closing his eyes when Sherlock bursts through the door.

“John!” he says, gleeful and manic, one of John’s favorite Sherlock moods.

“Yes?” John says, bemused.

“There’s been a _murder_ ,” Sherlock answers, and his grin is indecent and beautiful. He hurries to explain before John can ask any questions. “In London, Lestrade just contacted me--you remember Lestrade, he’s an Auror now--he wants us to come _help_.”

“Us?” John asks.

“Well, me, but I told him you were coming, of course. Besides, I could use your medical expertise,” Sherlock adds with a touch of pride, and it makes John puff up a bit, though he knows Sherlock would be just fine without him. He beams at the word _medical_ , imagining himself next year at St. Mungo’s, starting his further education. He’s just received the acceptance letter last week, and the happiness has yet to fade.

“Well, all right, then. I suppose we’re solving a murder today,” John agrees.

Sherlock is sunshine incarnate as he throws himself down, head in John’s lap, and looks up at John’s upside-down face. “Perfect,” he says.

And, as the train shudders into movement beneath them and John watches Hogwarts disappear behind them, John has to agree.


End file.
